I come upon a squirrel carcass
twisted in damp grass
beneath a sheltering oak, almost
no longer an animal, becoming
something else entirely:
birchbark, driftwood, honeycomb.
Its gnarled feet point up
the roots beneath point down.
My legs shine like ignorant beacons
pointed straight toward nightfall
so caught up in movement I forget
I could so easily not be here at all.